


Years

by yeaka



Category: To The Moon (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 22:24:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Just a short memory.





	Years

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Just finished watching [my fav Let’s Player play to the Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k5TJ0R1zS28), and it was amazing. So here’s just a small vignette as tribute.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own To the Moon or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

She doesn’t answer the first time he calls, which isn’t unusual, even though she must’ve seen him carrying their full plates over to the table. He tries one more time, directing a soft, “River, dinner’s ready,” across the foyer. Only the distant, infinitesimal sounds of crinkling paper echoes back. John finishes setting the silverware and stifles his sigh. Some days it gets to him more than others, but he never _regrets_. The only thing to do is smile and push forward.

He finds her over in the study, easily within earshot. She has another paper rabbit in her nimble hands, its innocent face forming slowly under her careful attention. There was a time, years ago, when she could fold them in her sleep, faster than he could ever imagine, and they’d all come out in exacting perfection. Now time’s crept up on the both of them, and her movements are ever so slightly stilted, one long ear slightly thicker than the other. Both are smeared with faint lines of red, and John puts a hand on her wrist to stop her.

She looks up at him, wide-eyed and beautiful. She asks, “Did you notice something else about it?”

“You’ve bled on it—you must’ve gone and gotten yourself a paper cut.”

Her small frown has such _depth_ to it. He knows, like he always does, that he didn’t give her the answer that she wanted. But he can never tell quite what she wants, and she won’t tell him in any language he can understand, so he’s doomed to disappoint. He sets her hand down on the wooden table and leaves to fetch some toiletries—a damp cloth, some rubbing alcohol, and a band-aid. When he returns, she’s working like she never stopped.

She holds the half-finished rabbit on the tabletop with one hand as he cleans the other, tenderly wiping it and applying the antiseptic, then blanketing it in the band-aid. When he’s finished, he lifts the bandaged wound to his mouth and kisses it better. She gives him a smile for his effort, perhaps a little sad around the edges, but still enough to warm his heart. He can see the love beneath it: that, at least, has never left.

Back to him for the moment, she asks, “What was it you wanted?”

In his younger days, he might’ve teased: _you_. But now he only tells her, “Dinner’s ready.” When she moves to get up, he touches her shoulder. “It’s alright, love. Finish your rabbit first.”

So she nods and does.


End file.
